Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Where I Live By Ken Delpit When I walk into where I live, I smell memories. This is where we first beheld what would be our first and only home, from the inside. Over there was where his first, very tentative, steps took place, from the parquet mahogany coffee table to my luring, waiting hands. Right there on the carpet is where she often would get rolled up into a daughter burrito, with auntie-made birthday blanket as tortilla, and with generous gobs of tickling cheese. When I walk into where I live, I smell unfulfilled should-haves and wish-I-hads. I wish I had done this, that, and especially that, better as a parent, and for that matter, as a husband. I should have taken care of that household repair long ago. I should have spent more time…
Category: Sparks
Memorable writing that sparks imagination.
Wild Man of the Hunt
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Wild Man of the Hunt By CM Riddle Mom grew up in the country with her brother and sister, along with what seems like hundreds of Italian immigrant relatives. Mom’s great-grandparents Albina (the mean one who kept a lid on the candy jar) and Rosalina (the sweet one who didn’t have a lid on the candy jar) were sisters. They sailed into San Francisco from Luca Italy in the late 1800’s with their husbands, who were brothers; Pietro and Romolo. While making great efforts to become a part of the new world, the family still clung to ways and traditions from Italy. Working on their land they grew vegetables and flowers, and made wine. Their families thrived in West Marin. Rosalina, or as Mom called her, Noni Rosie, had an original “bed and breakfast.” She hosted…
Winter’s Walk
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Winter’s Walk By Cheryl Moore On these dark mornings I feel the fog’s kiss on my cheek As though waking me to a new day; So unlike a much drier place I once lived so many years ago Where dust storms were more likely. I walk to the river where The fragrance of wild fennel fills the air Reminding me of the black liquorish I loved as a child. On the muddy banks wild fowl often appear On their daily hunt, bringing to mind They too fill their senses. We are not so unlike in our goals. When Chery Moore came to California in the early 1960’s, she realized she’d found her home. Then moving to Petaluma in the 70’s, she was as close to paradise as she’d ever be. Travel has taken her…
Marshmallow Webs Between My Fingers
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Marshmallow Webs Between My Fingers By Robin Mills It’s a summer morning on Granville Avenue, my grandparent’s home. The wafting smell of Sanka, released by boiling water poured over freeze-dried crystals in the bottom of a cracked and stained white porcelain mug, slinks out of the linoleum floored kitchen with yellow counter tops, sails down the hall to our bedroom where we sleep, our heads on flattened pillows and our little bodies under mothball infused quilts. Dragging our summer-tanned and happily worn bodies to the table, twisting fists dislodging sleep from our eyes, we sit, awaiting our breakfast. For the kids, ¼ cup Sanka, ¾ cups milk and a heaping teaspoon of brown sugar. I stir the mixture, from brown and white swirls to a tan much like the color the summer sun has laid on…
I Know Now
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. I Know Now By Mary O’Brien I know now not to bet on a sure thing. Christmas caroling with Grandpa and the grandkids at a nursing home the Saturday before The Big Day? Piece of cake…and there would be cake and treats for all participants afterwards. The perfect ending to a memory-making afternoon. This I had promised. I know now that my 86-year-old father, once blessed with a deep, rich and mellow bass voice now sings 1.75 pitches above the tone for which he aims. You know, the melody everyone else is singing a Capella because no musicians showed up. I leaned toward my oblivious and progressively hard of hearing dad, aiming what was left of my contralto towards his left ear. I had lost my voice the day before and at this point all I…
Winter Sunrises
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Winter Sunrises By Elizabeth Beechwood On the darkest days The glorious sunrise shouts And still we persist! Winter solstice marks the beginning of our journey around The Wheel together. It’s a mysterious dark time here in the Northern Hemisphere, when Nature challenges us to turn inward. Inward to our homes, inward to our bodies, inward to our minds and thoughts. In my part of the Pacific Northwest, winter is marked by long stretches of blustery rain punctuated with cold, clear breaks in the weather. Many people find comfort in starry winter skies, chunky knitted blankets, and twinkling lights. But it’s during these breaks that I find comfort in something different: the winter sunrise. The sunrise is especially glorious on these mornings; the sky is banded with robin’s egg blue, house finch blush, and warbler yellows and…
Arriving
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Arriving By Julie Wilder-Sherman She embraced becoming the crone. With age came a dawning while in the sunset, that she didn’t know everything when she was in her 30s. The next 40 years would shape who she would become in her later years—the matriarch, the elder, the wise one in the family. The realization that there was less time ahead than behind tickled her mind every day, and she set out to make the most of her last years. The seventies would be her decade. She would be her own boss. She made the conscious decision to let some friendships go. People she had put up with were no longer going to drain her energy and time. She would give her remaining energy and time to the ones she loved and cared about—like giving a present…
Under the Tree
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Under the Tree By Mary O’Brien You wake me with coffee – I wrapped gifts ‘til three. “Ten minutes,” I moan into my pajama sleeve. Sugar plums danced round the chimney with care, ten minutes later your hand on my hair. It’s now 5 AM, there’s a turkey to splay. It’s a terrible, horrible, wonderful day. A giggle of memory tickles my mind. The one with twin bikes, trusty training wheels behind. When what to my bleary eyes should appear, you’re under the tree, shedding a tear. The loss of your mother now freshly pricked. All ornaments she gifted us tenderly tick on a tree heavy with memories, some cold tonight. Others thick in the throat, hot with tears of hindsight. The babies we lost, the parents we buried,…
A Brick Path
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. A Brick Path By Douglas Newcomb I often tell the children that they must be afraid before they can be brave. Courage doesn’t travel alone, aimlessly, And doesn’t just drift anywhere it pleases. It follows fear and despair Quietly. I had courage enough to roar once, but was interrupted, and forgot what it was I was there to say. Now I don’t remember how I got here, or which direction I was headed. Out here the road stretches left and right as if arms unfolding. Douglas Newcomb lives in Petaluma, California, and grew up in the Sierra Nevada foothills.
Do Not Be Afraid to Write What You Know
Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page. Do Not Be Afraid to Write What You Know By Mashaw McGuinnis An acquaintance of mine texted after reading some of my novel-in-progress. “Don’t try so hard with stereotypical language and trailer park folks . . . I don’t buy it.” I wanted to disappear into the furniture, but instead I texted back a bumbling explanation that I wasn’t trying too hard, that the people in my stories are the people that I know, and I know them well. I always dread sharing my work because my middle-class friends never believe me when I say my characters, experiences, and vernacular come directly from my own dysfunctional, lower-class upbringing. By “lower class,” I mean more than low income or under-educated. I was raised by Dust Bowl migrant grandparents. Two generations back, only one had more than a…